My father, who works swing shift
and makes Campbell’s Tomato Soup
and grilled cheese for me every day
when I get home from kindergarten,
asks what’s wrong hon, what’s wrong,
why are you back early, are you sick,
but she is still going oh, oh, oh, out
loud like me or my brother when we cry,
as if she has skinned her knees,
and I sit at the white and silver
kitchen table and swing my legs
and wait for soup, and she says
he took my idea, he took it and said
it was his after he promised to present
it to engineering, he didn’t give me credit;
they gave him a thousand shares
in the company and when I told him
he stole my idea, he just smiled
and said sure I did, how are you
going to prove it you little, oh, oh,
and her knees are hurt again so
she can’t say the words, and smoke
is choking the kitchen because
my grilled cheese is burned
so I know my soup will have
a thick, dark skin like a scab.